this house is not a home
by AlwaysPadfoot
Summary: If he wasn't careful, George would lose himself as well as Fred.


**AN** : Prompts will be displayed at the bottom to avoid them potentially giving away things.

* * *

 **this house is not a home**

 **AlwaysPadfoot**

* * *

 **May 2nd 1998**

The Great Hall was a blur.

So what if the Light had won, George didn't care. The only thing he could focus on was the fact his brother was lying under a sheet alongside the other dead. His _brother_. His _twin_. His best fucking friend. Fred was gone; Fred was gone and he wasn't coming back.

It was like all the noise had been sucked out from around him, and George was in a soundless vacuum — alone.

Maybe this was a dream, maybe this was a nightmare, and George would wake up in his bed with Fred right there, snoring. The sound that had disturbed his sleep a million times before — George would be grateful to hear it now. He didn't care that he had hated every second of him and his family being squashed in like sardines at the Order's Headquarters; he'd trade anything to go back to that as long as Fred was at his side.

His eyes were fixed on the sheet that covered the cot Fred was laying on. George would give his only working ear for Fred to sit up and shout: 'Surprise! I was only joking.'

He didn't.

People tried to talk to George, but he felt so zoned out that the words went straight over his head. But then, finally, someone got his attention. George barely saw her coming, and then the next thing he knew, Angelina Johnson had engulfed him in a tight hug.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her face wet with tears. "I can't even imagine what you're going through."

"Angie, not now," George replied, his voice cracking. "Just...not now."

She sniffed and moved away, nodding slowly. "Okay, okay. Just know that I'm here for you okay? Whatever you need. But I understand, family comes first." Angelina tried to smile, but it didn't reach her eyes as she gently put a hand on George's shoulder. He didn't even realise she'd left until the Great Hall started to empty and his mum had appeared by his side. Unable to say anything, he let Mum guide him from the hall to the temporary Floo portals that had been set up. As his eyes drifted back to the hall where his father sat with Fred's body, George realised something.

Fred wasn't ever coming back.

* * *

 **May 17th 1998**

Nearly two weeks after Fred's death and a few days after the funeral, George sunk into a deep depression. He hated being around people, even family — he just wanted to be alone.

Locked behind the door of his room in the Burrow, he didn't leave his bed.

He barely ate; he barely spoke. Nothing felt right anymore. Mum and Dad had tried to convince him to do something, or to go back to the shop. But they didn't understand; Weasley's Wizard Wheezes was his and Fred's. That shop had been nurtured to life in this very bedroom, late at night when they were sure they wouldn't be overheard. They'd created it, built it, run it. Now, their shop in Diagon Alley was gathering dust with a note in the window that offered apologies and nothing more.

George turned over. As a May downpour hammered against the window, he stared out at the grey sky beyond the blurred window pane. There hadn't been a sunny day since the day George had sat in the Great Hall with his brother's body lying ten feet away.

Everyone tried to talk to him, but George was spiralling fast.

He wasn't sure of the date or even the time anymore. But as he lay alone in their room, there was a soft knock on his door. He didn't call out 'come in', he didn't even turn to see who it was, when the door creaked open.

"Hey, it's me," a quiet voice said. "Your mum said I could come up? She said that you're not talking to anyone, but I thought I'd try."

George had not turned over, but he recognised the voice as Angelina's. He felt a flicker of gratefulness that, at least, his friend was trying to lift his spirits. That being said, he was sure it wasn't going to work. In fact, he knew it; he wasn't sure if he was ever going to feel better.

"I'm going to just sit on the edge of the bed, alright?"

George felt the bed dip, and then Angelina touched his arm to comfort him, releasing a slow sigh. For a long moment she didn't say anything, and then she took a deep breath.

"Look, I know losing George must be hard, Fred, but you can't just stay in bed forever."

Her words made George sit up and turn to Angelina in shock. He studied the look on her face; it was as though she was serious — as though she believed that he was Fred.

"Angie," he said, his voice raspy. "Angie, I'm George."

She shook her head slightly, rubbing his arm. "No, honey. George is dead, Fred. George is dead."

"Angelina," George responded taking her hands. "I am George."

Her eyes narrowed. Her expression suddenly turned from soft to angry and she pulled her hands from his grasp, standing up in one fluid movement.

"For fuck's sake, Fred," Angelina said. "That's not a funny joke; you shouldn't joke about that. I realise you're going through something, but you can't say things like that!"

"No, Angie," George stammered, trying to calm her down automatically, suddenly forgetting about his debilitating depression as he tried to explain to her. "I really am George."

As he reached out for her, Angelina stepped out of his reach, tears staining her cheeks. George's heart broke for her and he threw the covers back to follow her. He reached out to take her hand and Angie ripped it away from him, crying out a 'no'.

"No, it's not a joke, Fred." She stormed to the door, George chasing after her in nothing but one of his brother's old t-shirts and his boxers. "Just—just send me an owl when you've come to your senses."

George called after her, following her as she stormed from the house. He stopped at the threshold of the back door as Angelina strode across the garden in the downpour of rain.

"Angie! Angelina! Just stop, let me explain!"

A crack filled the air and she was gone, leaving George confused. He stared out into the rain, his muscles protesting at the sudden movement after days in bed. Clinging to the doorframe, George was speechless. He wasn't entirely sure what exactly had happened, or how on earth Angelina could believe he was Fred. They'd known each other for nearly ten years; she'd had nearly always been able to tell them apart. Maybe she was just really missing Fred, after all, they had been boyfriend and girlfriend, even though neither of them had officially admitted it.

George realised then, he wasn't the only one grieving.

* * *

 **June 2nd 1998**

One full month since the Battle of Hogwarts, George finally admitted he needed help.

Well, he'd admitted it to himself, half-awake. He hadn't even opened his eyes yet as he lay in bed, unmoving, wondering whether today was the day to try something other than just wallowing. That being said, he was feeling a bit sick and dizzy, so maybe today wasn't a good day to overdo it. Turning over, George suddenly felt something odd. He stretched out his hand, suddenly finding more feet of bed.

His eyes snapped open.

George had a single bed; this was a double. He sat upright, his eyes flicking around at the unfamiliar room. Why was he not at home? Where the hell was he?

The room was plainly decorated; there were no hints about where he was at all. As he pushed the covers back, George noticed that he was wearing a soft pair of pyjamas with the initials F.W. embroidered on the pocket. His eyebrows furrowed together as he swung his legs off the bed and stood up to look at himself in the pale blue mirror in the corner. George's head spun. Nothing made any sense; he went to bed in his own room early last night because he wasn't feeling well, and now he was… wherever he was.

With his wand nowhere in sight, George headed for the door, finding the house unfamiliar and quiet. It was small and none of the three other rooms upstairs appeared lived in. Still, there was no sign of who owned the house he was in.

The stairs creaked underfoot as he went downstairs. There was no noise hitting his good ear except a distant sound that sounded a lot like waves on the beach, and the faint sound of birds somewhere overhead.

"Hello?" George decided to call out after finding yet more empty rooms. "Is anyone here?"

No response.

He checked the front and back doors, both locked, both unresponsive to the wandless magic he knew. When George closed his eyes he felt the gentle hum of magic in the air; there were definitely protective wards up. He wouldn't we able to apparate out of here, and it seemed as though he wouldn't be able to leave the house at all. George chewed on his lip as he returned to the open plan kitchen and lounge, his eyes searching for any clues as to how he had ended up in this predicament. Then finally he spotted something — a photo on the windowsill of the kitchen. He strode over and picked it up, his heart plummeting into his stomach.

It was a picture of Fred and Angelina.

"No, no, no," George muttered before turning and calling out into the empty house. "Angelina, Angie! Come on, Angie, we need to talk."

No response.

George resorted to trying all of the doors and every single window in the house, panic filling him up, working its way into every nook and cranny of his body. Every sign was pointing to the harrowing reality that Angelina truly did believe that he was Fred.

Exhausted from trying everything he could to get out of the house, George collapsed onto the sofa, breathing heavily.

He was truly trapped. His mind went through every possibility he could think of over and over; George couldn't come up with any idea that he hadn't already tried to get out of here. His eyes went to the clock. Surely his family would have realised he was gone? Surely they would wonder where he was? He hadn't left The Burrow in over a month, with the exception of funerals he'd had to attend. They'd be confused and worried about him. He didn't want to inflict that on them; he had to talk to Angelina.

Finally, after a few hours had passed, and George had helped himself to food from the fully stocked kitchen and was now reading a book that was on the shelf, his hearing picked up the front door opening and closing. Dropping his book, George got to his feet and rushed towards the sound.

He near ran into Angelina, who startled and then smiled softly.

"It's good to see that you're up and about."

"Angelina, we need to talk, and we need to talk now."

She frowned, clearly confused. "Okay. What's wrong? Fred, sweetie, you look really pale, let's sit down. Come on."

Without letting George say a thing, she pulled him gently to the sofa and they both sat down. He took a deep breath, took Angelina's hands gently in his and met her concerned gaze.

"Look, Angie," he sighed. "I'm not Fred. I am George, Angie. I will always be George; Fred is gone, and he's not coming back. I'm sorry, Angelina. I am really sorry."

The silence that fell over them was heavy, the air so thick George was sure neither of them took a breath for a long moment. He watched, waiting for Angie's reaction, and then suddenly her eyes filled with tears and George's heart broke for her.

Pulling her into a hug, he gently shushed. "It's okay, Angie. It's going to be okay."

She sobbed quietly and George held back is own tears as he hugged her. He never thought it would come to this; to him comforting others whilst his twin was the one who had been killed. Eventually, Angelina sniffed loudly, pushed George to arm's length, her eyes searching his for a long moment.

"Y—you...you actually believe you're him?" she asked.

George shook his head fast. "No, no, Angie, I am George."

"No, you are Fred. I know this is hard, but you are—"

George ran a hand through his hair exasperatedly, not able to stop his voice from rising as he stood up, cutting her off as he spoke.

"No. No. Angelina, I am George. Look, I'm missing an ear, for Merlin's sake. You remember? I lost this over a year ago. Fred had both of his ears."

"Fred, you lost that in the battle."

"No!" George cried out. "Fred is dead, Angelina. Fred. Is. Dead."

He choked back a sob, catching himself on the mantelpiece as his head spun. That was the first time he'd said that aloud. Fred is dead. He wanted his brother back; he wanted to go home. Angelina stood and caught his arm gently.

"Please," she said, her voice quiet and shaking. "Please, Fred, just sit down."

George shook his head but sat down anyway before he could fall down. He couldn't breathe; his chest was tight as the panic set in heavily. Gasping for air, Angelina rubbed his back. He was furious that he felt comforted by it, but he couldn't catch his breath to say a word in response to this fucked-up situation. Burying his face in his hands, George struggled to breathe as Angie whispered comforting words to him. Even as she did, he couldn't think of any way to convince her he wasn't Fred.

He would have to think harder.

* * *

 **October 3rd 1998**

"Fred? Fred, honey?"

George was sat at the breakfast table, his eyes unfocused as he stared into his cereal bowl. He hadn't left this house for over four months. He and Angelina had fought; over and over, they'd had the same argument. That he wasn't Fred. But even now he was slowly starting to give up the ghost, starting to wonder whether he was wrong.

"Fred?" Angie sat down at the breakfast table opposite him and pushed a cup of tea towards him. "Are you okay?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine."

Lie.

Angelina was never going to believe that he wasn't Fred. George zoned out, feeling distant as Angie talked at him about a guy in her office who was about to be promoted over her. At first, he'd tried to convince her, to remind her that he and Fred were considerably different. That Fred had been loud and confident and in love with Angelina; that George was quieter, more anxious, and definitely not in love with Angelina — not in the way Fred had been. Angelina had been his friend; practically a sister. Now, convinced that he was Fred, she was his abductor, the girl who slept beside him every night, believing that they were girlfriend and boyfriend.

"Fred, you're not listening."

"I'm not—" he began.

Angelina slammed her knife and fork down, her brown eyes narrowing. "I am not doing this — not this morning. For fuck's sake, Fred."

George withdrew in on himself slightly. Every time they had this argument, Angelina got angrier and angrier. When he didn't say anything, she stood up so suddenly the chair she was sat on toppled over and hit the floor. The noise echoed loudly, and he sighed. She picked up her half-finished plate and tossed it in the sink, where George was sure it smashed.

"I don't know what to do anymore, Fred!" she yelled. "I'm trying and trying to help, and fuck, I won't abandon you, but it's so hard to watch you self-destruct like this."

George was so utterly exhausted of fighting, he didn't respond. He ate another spoonful of cereal. Not even daring to glance in Angelina's direction, he found the best way not to hurt her was not to indulge in the fantasy that encompassed them both. Usually, that worked; this time it didn't.

"Listen to me, Fred!"

She strode across the kitchen, picked up George's bowl and launched it at the wall.

"Angelina, please, don't do this," he said. "Please, just go to work and leave it."

Judging by the way Angelina slammed her hand down on the kitchen table, she was going to do no such thing. George forced himself to not look at her. Unfortunately, she responded by pushing his shoulder, a loud noise of frustration leaving her mouth as she shouted Fred's name. She pushed George once, twice and then after the third time, he caught her wrist.

"Stop."

Angelina wrenched her hand from him — not that he was holding on to her particularly tight. And before he could even blink, she'd slapped him hard.

The silence that fell between them was deafening, white noise roaring in the air as George raised his hand to his face.

The skin was hot.

Angelina was the first to even move after that. She walked away, booting the fallen chair as she did, grabbing her wand from the windowsill. Her hands were shaking and George stood up, not sure whether to leave her alone. But when his gaze fell on her watery eyes his heart softened.

"Angie, it's okay. It doesn't even hurt."

It was a lie. His cheek really stung, but he wasn't going to admit that.

A sob broke free of her lips. Angelina took three strides towards him and threw her arms around his neck, accidentally poking him in the back of the head with her wand. George couldn't bring himself to hug her back. He shuddered slightly, shaking the feeling of a sudden breeze off as she cried against him.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry; you know I didn't mean it, right Fred?"

He nodded, slowly reciprocating the hug.

"Right, of course, Angie."

* * *

 **January 22nd 1999**

George watched him die. Over and over, Fred died. And even though he knew it was a dream, that didn't make it any easier.

After the thirteenth time the roof collapsed overhead, George desperately tried to fight himself out of his dream. It felt as though he was pinned down to the ground. Not only by the large chunk of rock that his subconscious had dropped on him but by everything. By the confusion, his brain was throwing at him every day since Fred had died.

Or was it George that had died?

He shook his head, looking across to the rubble on his right. All George could focus on was the pale, bloodied hand, barely visible in the cloud of dust surrounding him.

"Fred?" His voice cracked when he called out and he took a gasping breath. "Fred, please. Fred, c'mon man. Fred. Fred. Fred, please!"

All of a sudden, someone grabbed his shoulders, and the next thing George knew he was awake.

He couldn't breathe, sweat causing his pyjamas to cling to every part of his body. The shadowy figure above him was saying his name, but it sounded distorted, demonic even. George felt like his nightmare was suffocating him. His fingers dug into the flesh of his palms as he tried to focus. Eventually, the light made his eyes sting and he winced and the sudden change in his surroundings.

Angelina's face came into focus.

"Fred? Fred, please," she pleaded. "Talk to me. Talk to me!"

Taking gulping breaths, George managed to get ahold of the panic that had gripped him tightly because of the nightmares.

"I—I—I can't," he stammered.

Angelina pulled him upright and wrapped her arms around him, shushing him gently. "It's okay, honey. It's okay."

George gripped her pyjama top, his body shaking. Even in the half-lit room, he was sure he could still detect the noises of battle ringing in his ears — screaming, yelling. When he squeezed his eyes shut, he could see spells flashing in the corners. He swore, his voice raspy. Angelina continued to comfort him and George couldn't let go, desperate to ground himself in any way possible.

"I miss him. I miss him so m-much."

"I know sweetheart," Angie responded. "I miss him too."

"I. I j-just want him back," George said, "I w-want George back."

Angelina pushed him gently to arm's length and met his gaze steadily, looking relieved. "I know. It's going to be okay, Fred. I promise it's going to be okay. Even though George is gone, it's going to be okay.

He pulled her back into a hug. She was right.

George was gone; he wasn't coming back.

* * *

 **April 6th 1999**

Everything officially came crumbling down just after his birthday. George woke up to the feeling of the wards shattering around their home.

Angelina must not have felt it because she lay sound asleep beside him. His eyes flashed to the windows, the sky outside filled with cracking blue and gold. People were breaking in. George had no wand to fight, no energy to use wandless magic — he hadn't since the battle.

He shook Angelina's shoulder. "Wake up! Wake up, the wards are being broken."

She sat bolt upright. Her eyes were wide full of more fear than George had ever seen before. That look terrified him to his very core. He had to protect her from whatever threat was coming for them. He couldn't stand to see her scared like this. Throwing back the sheets, George scrambled to his feet.

"Where's your wand, Angie?"

She rummaged through her bedside table and tossed him her wand.

"Be careful Fred, please don't get hurt," she told him.

George strode across and pressed his lips to hers. Angie sighed softly, something George had yet to truly understand why she did, as he pulled away. He didn't understand kissing.

"Love you, Angie," he said automatically.

"Love you too, Fred."

Angelina's wand gripped in his hand, George turned at the sound of the door being blown onwards and walked briskly towards the stairs.

He was ready to fight.

Concentrating hard, George detected five distinct magical signatures as he rounded the bannister and rushed towards the cacophony of noise and flickering wand light. He wasn't going down with a fight; he wasn't going down knowing that he hadn't done absolutely everything to protect Angelina.

The first person hit the floor before they'd even seen George coming, spun off their feet by a stunning spell from his wand. Unfortunately, that alerted the others of George's presence.

"Put the wand down. Put it down and get on the floor."

George sank back into duelling so easily it scared him I little. There were more stunning spells in the air than anything else, flashes of red light illuminating the room. The flickering was so vicious that it was enough to cause someone to fit. The noise of yelled spells and loud screaming for him to put the wand down was lost on George. He didn't care. He was focused, humming in tune with the magic around him.

Two more people took stunners straight to the chest.

George revelled in it. He hadn't held a wand in his hand for months and yet it was instinctual.

Unfortunately, that was his prowess as well as his downfall. Caught off-guard, George was knocked off his feet, crashing into the wall behind him. The air rushed out of his lungs and he gasped. Darkness quickly seeped in at the corners of his vision and at that moment, George knew he'd failed.

He'd failed her. He failed himself.

* * *

 **April 8th 1999**

George blinked awake to a bright white ceiling.

This wasn't home. This wasn't his bed. Angelina wasn't lying next to him and as he looked to his side, George realised he was at St Mungos.

Frowning, George didn't move for a long moment, trying to remember what had happened. People had broken into the house; he'd tried to fight them, and then someone had hit him hard with a spell and the fight was over. Feeling mildly sick, his thoughts went immediately to Angelina.

Merlin, he hoped she was okay.

George pushed himself up with shaky arms, blinking a few times to adjust to the light. His eyes searched the room. On the chair in the corner was a bag he recognised. One he hadn't seen in over ten months. It was a brown leather backpack, worn and scratched from multiple years of use. He'd had it since the day he got on the Hogwarts Express in first year. Someone must have brought it from home.

 _Home_. Home was The Burrow. Why wasn't his mind connotating home with the house with Angelina — where he'd spent the last ten months?

His family could be here. His mum, his dad. His siblings.

George had just swung his legs over the edge of the bed when the door opened. He looked up hopefully, only to find that it wasn't a member of his family or Angelina.

"Morning, Mr Weasley," the Healer said, an Irish lull in his voice.

George cocked his head slightly at the Healer. He recognised him almost instantaneously. How could he forget the stocky Irishman who secretly brought WWW products even though he was adamantly vocal that Ron and Harry had been crazy? Or how the seventh year had been barely recognisable when George had returned to Hogwarts for the battle. That being said, he looked a lot better now.

"Seamus Finnigan?"

The man chuckled slightly. The smile on his face made his eyes twinkle in a way George couldn't describe.

"I'm surprised you remember me," he said, lifting the chart from the end of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

George hadn't really thought about it, but now Seamus had asked, his head was pounding.

"Bit of a headache, kind of confused."

"I'm not surprised, the number of confundus charms you've been subjected to could have caused you some serious issues."

"Confundus charms?"

Seamus' expression turned serious then, and George's heart dropped into his stomach. He gripped the edge of the bed as Seamus put down the clipboard and moved closer.

"Yes, memory charms," he said firmly. "Do you mind if I just ask you a few questions?"

George shook his head. His head was spinning now, errant thoughts coming together to make him doubt everything all over again. He barely managed to catch that Seamus was asking him his name. George looked up.

"Oh Merlin, I'm not Fred. I'm George."

Seamus studied him carefully, not saying anything as George exhaled shakily. His own mind was a traitor. Angelina had made him believe he was crazy; she'd made him believe — for a moment — that he was Fred. In some ways, he still felt like he'd lost the George he knew. He'd been gone for ten months away from his family, his friends.

"George Weasley."

"It's okay, George," Seamus said softly. "Thank you for answering."

Seamus ran through a few more basic questions. George's date of birth, where he grew up, just basic things he could never forget. He had a million questions to ask Seamus. How many times had Angelina subjected him to memory charms after she'd taken him from his home? He suddenly couldn't think how all their arguments about him not being Fred had ended. Why had they had so many arguments and never come to a resolution?

"What happened to Angi—to Angelina?" George asked, interrupting Seamus mid-sentence.

"The Auror team that found you and Miss Johnson arrested her on the scene," Seamus explained.

George exhaled as Seamus explained that Angelina was sent for a psychological evaluation at her insistence that he was Fred. He then explained that after his initial Healer evaluation on George when he had been brought in showed multiple signs of memory-type charms had been cast on him.

"I know that this must be difficult to process," Seamus said softly, putting his hand on George's shoulder. "But I've got a waiting room full of redheads just waiting to get in here."

"My family? They're here?"

"Since the moment you were found," Seamus responded. "Actually, your younger brother has been harassing me in every single break I've had. And honestly, I'd rather like it if he stopped doing that before I punch him — hard."

George let a little wisp of laughter escape his lips.

"That's Ronniekins for you," George sighed.

Suddenly all George could think about was being smothered by a crushing hug from his mum. He could smell the Burrow already: freshly baked bread, the faint smell of boys that would never go away, the countryside breeze blowing in through the open kitchen window. Merlin, he wanted that. he needed that.

"Shall I tell them you're awake?" Seamus asked.

"Unless you think I can slip out without being noticed?" George joked.

Seamus pulled a face and George suddenly realised the younger man's hand was still on his shoulder. "I don't think so, but we'll come up with the signal that you can give me if you need a break."

He winked and George felt his remaining ear grow warm, an infamous and unwanted alternative to blushing. He sighed and then took a deep breath. It was time to go home; it was time to be surrounded by family again. And Merlin was George ready for that.

"Send them in."

* * *

 **Comps and Prompts:**

 **Assignment 9:** Muggle Art: Van Gogh - Task One: Write about someone suffering a mental illness

 **Gotta catch 'em all:** 102\. Exeggcute [Word: Flesh/Object: Knife/Time: Breakfast]

 **WC - Character Appreciation** \- 30. (plot point) a death in the family

 **WC - Disney Challenge** \- Manipulation - Write about someone manipulative. Alt, Write about someone being manipulated into something.

 **WC - Showtime** \- 36. Empty Chairs at Empty Tables - (emotion) Grief

 **WC - Days of the Month** \- Military Spouse Appreciation Day - Write about someone left behind when a loved one goes to war

 **WC - AAA** \- 12. Old School - (word) Traitor

 **WC - Sophie's Shelf** \- 1a) Write about someone who isn't safe.

 **WC - Emys Emporium** \- 3. Empress Borte - write about a damsel (or mansel) in distress

 **WC - Angels Arcade** \- Bowser - (Action) kidnapping someone, (Trait) Cunning, (Color) gold

 **Word Count** : 4922


End file.
